The Secrets to a Long-Term Relationship

….are, separate bathrooms and the Internet.  Of course, there are the basics that you learn about from your mom and other love gurus, such as the need for positive and thoughtful communication.  That one took us awhile.    Since Nels doesn’t lie very well, and since I used to be (ahem) sensitive about my body image, it was a clear landmine when I asked him, “does this skirt/dress/outfit make me look bovine/matronly/slutty?”  Nels did a terrific job dodging these landmines, but neither of us felt good about these exchanges.  Now, I can ask that same question and he might say something like, “It’s not particularly flattering” and then gives some specific reasons why by focusing on the outfit, not my figure.  Many problems are solved here.  My sensitivities are unruffled.  I don’t go out looking ridiculous.  Nels can feel good that he saved my ego. 

We also have different, often strong, opinions on how certain things should be done.  For example, I load the top rack of the dishwasher so that the cups fit nicely in the rows. Nels puts the cups over the tines.  It turns out this conflict goes back at least one generation, since we are merely following how each of our mothers taught us.  I argue that my way is better because you can fit more cups in.  It has never been clear why he does it the other way.  Now, we basically just put our cups in how we like to, and it all seems to work out. 

Then there is the annual argument about how to use the central air.  When it was installed, the technician told me that once the air was on, you were supposed to keep it on.  Also, you didn’t want to wait until it was too hot and humid in the day to start it.   All of this was supposed to produce less stress on the system.  That made sense to me, so I stuck with it.  This, however, did not fly with Nels.  Why turn the air on before you needed it?  Why can’t we turn it off and on as it is needed, he asked.  Our Indiana friends may think this whole turning off and on thing is crazy, because once it is hot there, it’s just plain hot.  Here in Bristol, however, it can be pleasant and cool in the mornings before the heat and humidity creep up to uncomfortable levels.  Thus, the disagreement usually begins in May and lasts through September.

We were having this discussion just last week.  Awhile after our usual impasse, Nels came to me and said, “I don’t want you to be mad, but…”  But what?  Did you wreck the car?  Did you break something expensive?  No and no.  Instead, he had gone to the Internet and found out that what the technician told me eight years ago was a myth.  The less time the air conditioning is on, the better.  Plain and simple.  Nels thought I would be mad because he was right and I was wrong.  Absolutely not.  It is such a relief to not worry about turning the air on in the heat of the day.  This is just one reason why the Internet is good for relationships.  Instead of clinging to set ways of doing things that feed into longstanding arguments, it is possible to find out the facts. 

Another secret to a happy relationship is to have separate bathrooms, especially when they are so tiny there is barely room for the tub, toilet and sink, much less a person, much less two people.  Some folks like the toilet paper to be put on the holder a certain way, object to toothpaste in the sink, are grossed out by pulling somebody else’s hair out the of the drain, or resent sharing such small space.  By having separate bathrooms, these issues do not arise, nor do I have to look at Nels’ soap ball.  What is a soap ball you ask?  Well, it’s the accumulation of months, possibly years, of bars of soap.  Having a different bathroom ensures that I do not have to find a way to wash my body with something that I can’t even fit in one hand, although I do have to pull my own hair out of the drain.        

While there is much to be said about the romance and excitement of the planning and first years of marriage, I prefer this time, 19 years in.  While we are the same at the core, we are much different people than we were the day after OJ Simpson’s wild ride in the white Bronco.  We even look different—less innocent, perhaps, and less puffy (clothes, bodies, hair).  More mature, more thoughtful toward one another. 

 

  

A Peek Inside the Mind of a Conservative

Discipline for discipline’s sake.

Take care of #1. 

I am sure all Dads have pet sayings, offerings of wisdom to give to their children.  Those are the two I remember hearing most from my dad, whom my brother Joe christened “the Waynus” as in “Waynus the Painus.”  Dad, like his two brothers, had two names growing up.  He was Floyd Wayne.  His oldest brother was John Guy.  His second oldest brother was Harley Joe.  Mom said that when she first met Dad, she thought he had four brothers because he used their first and middle names interchangeably.  Luckily, Dad was only known as Wayne.  Or maybe he didn’t think he was so lucky when my brother came up with a nickname that has stuck for 40 years.  Although Dad doesn’t seem to mind now.  He even signs his emails “The Waynus.” 

Dad will turn 83 the day after Father’s Day.  We always celebrated Father’s Day and his birthday together, and he never seemed to resent the joke gifts, like the Jimmy Carter coffee cup or the George W. Bush talking doll (my sister and I, the liberals of the bunch, like to tweak Dad for his conservative views).  I bought my favorite gift for him from K-Mart when I was in middle school.  It was a red, white, and blue mesh baseball hat, the kind with an over-sized bill, and it said, “I’M PROUD TO BE A FARMER” on the front.  To me, it was a goofy tribute to the hours he spent in his large vegetable garden, including his morning and evening strolls to see what growth might have occurred in the intervening hours.  This irritated Mother, because after work he would go out into the garden before even coming into the house.  She only knew he was home when he plopped the basket of yellow squash on the counter.    Dad wore that hat for years, un-ironically, and I began to see it that way too.  It made me sad when the thing fell apart and it had to be thrown away. 

While Dad may not have been the kind of farmer who planted acres of corn or soybeans or kept cows and hogs, he spent his summers on his grandparents’ farm in rural Jennings County in southern Indiana during the Depression.  He once told me that his ancestors were not very smart because they chose to set up farms in the clay-like soil near Commiskey and Paris Crossing, instead of moving to more fertile ground to the north or west.   To this day, he can barely keep his eyes on the road when driving south down I-69 because he’s checking out the fields.  For Dad, the health of the crops is connected to the health of the economy, and thus the health of communities, families and individuals.  You can take the boy off the farm, but not the farm out of the boy, it seems.

My dad’s favorite sayings reflect this background.  Farming requires hard work, regardless of how weather or markets affect yields or prices.   Living in the inevitably lean periods means that discipline was meted out externally, as in “Discipline for discipline’s sake.”   Dad puts great stock in self-control for all behaviors, emotions, and actions.  For him, this is almost a moral imperative, and it’s tied directly to his other favorite saying, “Take care of #1.”

I used to roll my eyes when Dad would say that.  It seemed selfish at the least, criminal at worst.  It also did not correlate with what I was learning in Sunday School, which I attended at my parents’ behest.  This is probably why Dad argued with Pastor Krueger during his own Sunday School classes, as he found the books and teachings to be far too liberal for his taste.   You’d think Dad would actually practice some of this #1 business since he said it so many times, but he did not, at least not in the literal sense.  He and Mother regularly tithed to the aforementioned church.  Another, much bigger example occurred  after  the company he worked for, Kroger, asked that he move his family from Fort Wayne (they had moved my dad’s job from Chicago to Atlanta to Cincinnati to St. Louis to Fort Wayne during the previous ten years).   Because my sister Julie was about to enter high school, Dad said no.  He took less promising positions with smaller companies to ensure that we had a sense of stability and security in the family-friendly haven of Aboite Township. 

Thus, for the Waynus, taking care of #1 does not mean taking care of oneself at the expense of others, although he is an unrepentant capitalist and the only person I have ever met who didn’t like Franklin Roosevelt.  He believed FDR ushered in an era of individual dependence on the government.   Dad is definitely a “Pull yourself up by your bootstraps” kind of guy.  To a critical researcher and teacher like myself, it is easy to claim that he is insensitive to issues of class, race, gender, etc., and believe me, we have had those arguments.  However, my dad’s stories about this topic always revolve around how much a person appreciates what she earns by working for it instead of being given it.  As an illustration, he tells the story about how his dad once said to him, “I notice you take a lot better care of your own car than you ever did of mine.”  My dad took this admonishment to heart.  His point is that it is easy to take for granted things that are given to you instead of earned. 

While it pains me to know that my parents get their news from Fox and believe that yes, while climate change might now be legitimate, it is not necessarily a result of human behavior, I do think Dad has some wisdom to offer those of us starting from a level playing field.  For him, there is nothing like the satisfaction of earning one’s way.  Taking care of #1 requires the belief and the will to take care of oneself if given the opportunity.  It means independence.  It means responsibility, and perhaps, discipline for discipline’s sake.

      

Flunking Compassion

Last weekend I attended a Compassionate Presence workshop.  Like any community, we yogis share particular worldviews and practices that can be outside the mainstream.  Reconnecting with others who don’t think it is crazy to chant in Sanskrit even if we don’t know what the words mean, who have serious talks about breathing and loving-kindness, and who believe truly, madly, and deeply that all beings are linked to a Divine presence, is a way to reinforce our individual practices. Compassion is definitely yogi territory, and I was eager to find ways to bring it off the mat and into my other social worlds.

Not so fast.  After some chanting (see above) and introductions, we took a quiz on compassion.  Many of the questions were difficult to answer, as often happens on these kinds of quizzes, because there is no room for context.  For example, one of the statements was, “When friends are sick, I make a point of paying them a visit.”  Because I don’t necessarily want visitors when I’m sick, I figure that my friends don’t either, unless there is something specific I can provide for them. I will also admit to discomfort in being around people who are physically suffering.  Any response feels either inadequate or wrong.  That probably comes from wanting to fix the situation, and since the Dr. before my name is not the M.D. kind, I feel incapable of doing anything substantive for their health. 

Another statement was, “I drop everything to help my neighbors and coworkers when they are having problems.”  Again, I go back to my empathetic response.  I would feel terribly guilty if an acquaintance rearranged her schedule because I was having some kind of nebulous “problem.”  The only person I expect to do that for me is my husband, and since we go back 19 years, that seems like a fair expectation.  That being said, if my neighbor needs me to take her son to school, I’m happy to do it unless I happen to be teaching a class or have a meeting at that time.  To me, the “drop everything” is a red flag.  It is disrespectful of one’s own time, life, and plans. 

It is probably obvious why I scored five points under Low Giver (20^th percentile), which is where they stopped counting.  What would be the name of the percentile under that?  Stingy Giver?    I have not scored that low on a test since the quantitative section of the GRE.  Thank goodness that test had verbal and reasoning sections, or I never would have gotten into grad school. 

Just as the GRE measures different kinds of intelligence, shouldn’t a compassion quiz address multiple types of compassion?  For example, if there were questions about animals (“I have adopted animals from a shelter,” or “I send a little prayer for the souls of roadkill when I pass their furry bodies by the side of the road” for example), my score might be a lot higher.  Or, if there were questions for listening to friends and family members who are frustrated by circumstances or people outside their control, my score might at least hover in the “Low Giver” range. 

On the other hand, this quiz provided some insight into my willingness to offer and express compassion.  It is easy for me to feel compassion for those who have little power, whether they are Michael Vick’s pit bulls, abandoned children, or targets of domestic, political, or societal violence.  It is harder to feel compassion for grownups who make self-harming choices or who cede their sense of well-being and control to others and then complain about it (full disclosure—that’s one of my specialties.  Damn it!).   

While most of us—saints and gurus aside—are guilty of the above, Charles Eisenstein offers this wisdom: “I would surely do as you do, if I were you.”  This is beyond empathy, which simply makes a claim about understanding how the other feels. It is easy to feel horror and sadness for victims, but most of us would like to think that we would not have remained in the abusive relationship; would not become addicted to food, drugs, or alcohol; and most certainly would not have slapped a child.   Eisenstein says that true compassion starts with understanding that if you were that person in those circumstances, yes, you would have done those things.  It does not make everything okay; and it does not excuse behaviors that harm the self or others.  Compassion is the simple recognition that, as Lucille Clifton said, “Every pair of eyes facing you has probably experienced something you could not endure.” 

Thus, compassion is not about being nice.  It is about being authentic and accepting the world and people as they are—not as we want them to be.  Compassion also tells us we are all the same, deep down.  It is about offering what we can out of the kindness that naturally arises when we come from a place of identification instead of judgment, because judgment arises from a sense of I’m-better-than-you, thus I can fix this for you.

Deborah Adele writes, “Handling challenges gives each of us a sense of skill, self-esteem, and accomplishment.  When we try to fix or save someone else, we are keeping them from getting the learning the situation has for them.”  That’s my lesson from flunking the quiz.  I may not able to cure you or fix your situation, but watch out the next time you get sick.  I might be stopping by anyway.  

What's Good for Kids

I love my profession.  I love working with students and with people who are passionate about kids’ well-being, whether they are my fellow teacher educators, teachers, administrators, 4-H sponsors, social workers, or parents.  While I fell into teaching by accident, it is no accident that I am still passionate about education 20 years later. 

That’s why the steadily deepening divide between teachers and policymakers is so dispiriting.   I believe that as wide as this gap is, we all want “what’s good for kids,” as my former principal, Chuck Holloway, used to say.  We just have different interpretations of what that means.  It seems to me that the central argument is linked to two competing theories:  positivism and critical theory.  The current testing and evaluative culture comes from the positivists, who believe that knowledge accumulation comes from the development of “building blocks” adding to an “edifice of knowledge” (Lincoln & Guba, 2003).  Quality criteria are judged by “conventional benchmarks of ‘rigor’: internal and external validity, reliability, and objectivity.”  This is an example of what Paulo Freire famously named the “banking system” of learning, where the teacher deposits the knowledge in the student’s head, and s/he then dutifully reproduces it.

In contrast, criticalists believe that knowledge is situated and historical—that as culture shifts and changes, knowledge also changes; that who we are and where we come from influences what we come to know and how we know it.  Criticalists attend to the diversity of human experience by valuing individual knowledge AS MUCH AS they value communication, literacy, and numeracy skills.  The trouble is, it takes time and thoughtfulness to evaluate projects that require multiple drafts, collaboration, creativity, independent thinking, and critical analysis. The evaluative process is necessarily messy and complex to match the messiness and complexity of the learning. 

I have heard from multiple teachers in a variety of districts who have had to give up projects that required just these skills in order to meet impossibly long lists of objectives.  Some have to follow curriculum guides requiring classic texts be taught in lock-step (be on p. X on Wednesday).  Lesson and unit planning are foundational to teaching, and should include space for dialogue and “wrestling with the text,” as one of my professors put it.  It takes time—and often repetition—for students to understand academic discourses in any depth, no matter what the subject.  As an English teacher, it pains me that texts are positioned as items to “get through” before going on to the next.  Literature shapes our consciousness and our identities; and as such, deserves rich discussion guided by thoughtful and knowledgeable teachers.      

Clearly, I belong in the critical camp.  However, I am not going to demonize the educational positivists (well, I’ll try not to, anyway).  The same thing is happening in business culture.  Friends of mine have left (or been fired from) their professions because emphasis on the bottom line precluded the innovation, relationship-building, and risk-taking that made their work worthwhile. This relentless by-the-numbers game—whether it is test scores, sales figures, or any other narrow measures of success--diminishes us all.

In this time of great technological and cultural change, there is more and more attention paid to children’s physical safety (bike helmets, sitting in the back seat, locked schools, etc.) and after-school enrichment activities (every kid I know is in gymnastics, T-ball, soccer, and/or music).  Attention is being paid to developing the whole child.  Why then, is intellectual development being narrowed in the schools?  It is an interesting question.

When positivists and criticalists use negative rhetoric to target the other, the argument becomes personal, when the larger picture is about philosophical differences.  If leaders would take the time to hear, understand, and appreciate the other’s perspective, perhaps we would find that there is room for multiple kinds of teaching, learning, and evaluation.  Actually, I would just settle for hearing one another’s ideas on what is good for kids.  Surely, there is some common ground there.

          

Before your Mom was your Mom

Who was your mom before she was your mom?  Before you identified her as the person who had the power to give or withhold what you wanted, whether it was a bottle, a toy, her attention, or freedom? 

Most of us grow up with stories of our mothers’ growing up, sometimes filtered by their parents, siblings, and friends.  My grandparents died when I was young, so I never got a chance to see their perspectives.  My family spent several vacations roaming the countryside of south Georgia, the Decatur neighborhoods, and the grounds of the boarding school and college she attended with her older sister, Charlotte, whom everyone calls Chartie.  I heard stories on those trips about my mother’s identity as a pianist, first taught by her mother, who trained her to read and memorize music by learning the treble clef first, then the bass clef, and then bringing the two together.  Grandmother’s teacher, Aunt Grace, eventually took over, and Mother was on her way to being a classically trained pianist, practicing at least two hours a day, and then later much more when she attended graduate school at the Indiana University School of Music in the 1950’s.   

I had heard these stories before, but what I didn’t know was the fruits of those long hours of practice.  That is, until she gave us all of her record albums.  Included were some long-forgotten vinyl recordings of her undergraduate and graduate recitals.  Nels cleaned them using one machine especially for that purpose, and then transferred them to compact disc as a Mother’s Day present for her.  I came down to the basement as he was doing this, and was caught up in wonder.  My mom, who used to wear polyester shorts as she folded load after load of laundry at the kitchen table, and overcooked chicken because she was afraid if she didn’t it would kill us, could do this?  Of my three siblings, I am the only one who did not become a musician.  If I had to choose a favorite pianist, I would probably pick Stevie Wonder.  But listening to my mother play pieces by Hindemith (a 20^th century composer), Bach, Beethoven, and Chopin is not only a path into her virtuosity, but into who she was as a young woman in her early 20’s, before marriage and definitely before children.    

After we gave Mom the CD’s, she told me that the  Beethoven Opus 110 Fugue was the most difficult piece.  She also said that it might be familiar to me, as she practiced and played it for a concert when we lived in Little Rock while she was pregnant with me in the late 1960's.  As I listen to it now, a little distorted by time and scratches on the vinyl, I can feel her passion and concentration.  This, too, is my mother.  She is more than the person who didn’t want me to drive alone at night; who put a vase of snapdragons on the bathroom counter when I despaired at ever learning to put in contacts; and who let more go than I will ever know.  My mother’s piano playing is one of her gifts to the world that had been buried.  Like an archaeologist digging up artifacts from a lost civilization, I feel humbled and delighted to be part of something from the past that is so beautiful and mysterious. 

To all the mothers out there:  don’t be afraid to excavate your pre-mom identity.  You are a whole person, full of history and legend, and your children will appreciate this about you.

To all the children out there:  one of the biggest gifts you can give your mother is to see her as that whole person who existed before you; and now, exists beyond you and your scope of understanding.  Please appreciate and cherish that.  This is not just for your mother, but for you.  Your life will be richer.  I promise.

 

        

Cemetery Wisdom

While I am not particularly comfortable with the dying, I get along okay with the dead.  I grew up across the street from Covington Memorial Gardens (“Gardens” being a nice euphemism, kind of like “passed away” for died), and spent my childhood climbing on monuments, kissing statues, visiting geese at the pond, and running the mile loop of cracked pavement.  Once, I was sure I saw a guy wearing monk’s robes in the adjacent woods where the cement vaults were stored.

It seems I can’t stay away from burial grounds, as we now live within a mile of two cemeteries.  Within one block, right across from the high school, is St. Mary’s, where the graves are laid out in orderly fashion with mostly gray headstones, some considerably weathered, others shiny, grief newly etched in painstaking lettering.  Flags sprout up in the veterans’ section for Memorial Day and July 4^th.  There is a sense of order and dignity in the luscious green lawn and uniformly shaped markers. 

The second cemetery, Juniper Hill, is about half a mile down our street the other way.  There is a short drive to a wrought iron gate surrounded by a 19^th century stone wall.  The grounds feel, and are, historical.  Stately. But then you see that many of the gravestones are haphazardly strewn about, like boulders in a field.  Large tree roots from junipers and weeping birches compete with markers for space, wood shifting stone. 

When we first moved to Bristol, I was appalled at the condition of the gravestones, many of which were listing sideways, sinking into marshy ground, or crumbling.  Some stone caskets are above ground, and curiosity warred with fear as I investigated inch-wide cracks across the top.  No rotting wood or powdery remains revealed themselves.  I am not sure whether I was more disappointed or relieved.    

This weekend, though, as I walked through the burial ground, alone except for the teenage couple in skinny jeans and punk hair (his was red, hers was green), I appreciated the symmetry of the place.  Instead of graves laid out in solemn rows on flat land as if a farmer or accountant had arranged them, the place felt organic, and—irony aside--alive.  The dogwoods glowed with bright white flowers even on this cloudy April afternoon.  Bouquets of daffodils, tulips, and hyacinth cheered up some gravestones, and shoots of lilies and hostas promised new life for others. 

I came here to visit the magnolias and mourn the weeping birch who lost its best feature in the February blizzard—a long, well-muscled arm of a branch reaching horizontally across the ground.  The branch had been sliced into stacks of fireplace logs next to the caretaker’s home.  I once heard him say this was his favorite tree. 

I wandered among the graves, pausing at some of the inscriptions.  My favorite was for Susanne Robbins DeWolf, 1930-1983.  A sturdy stone bench had been erected in her honor, with the following words:

AN INQUIRING HEART

COURAGE TO WILL AND

SPIRIT TO LOVE

This seemed like the perfect place to pause.  The birds got louder as I got quieter, and the beauty of the place sank in as I contemplated the many souls around me.  The small graves with initials only, the impressive bench on which I sat, the large monuments dedicated to the important people of Bristol, including various Colts (related to Samuel Colt, who invented the Colt .45), DeWolfs (a seafaring family, some of whose wealth came from the triangle trade) and Bradfords (a Rhode Island governor  is in that lineage).  The beauty of this place, though, is not in the shape of the monuments or names and dates faded into stone, but in the allowing of nature and the dead to co-exist with a minimum of interference. 

Does this make Juniper Hill spooky?  Lonely?  Quiet?  Yes, yes, and yes.  But maybe death is a little spooky, lonely, and quiet, for the person being mourned and for the mourners.  I have become reconciled to what I originally saw as carelessness and disrespect for the dead here, the allowing of stone markers to melt into the earth.  Now I see the process of nature unfolding and cracking the human sense of permanence.  If we have what Susanne brought to the world, “an inquiring heart, courage to will, and spirit to love,” then we do not need even a fine stone bench to memorialize our lives and our passing.  It is enough to have lived. 

Heartbreak Hill

We had just arrived home after a glorious day watching the Boston Marathon when I received two texts from a friend who lives in Virginia.  At 3:17 p.m., she wrote, “CNN is saying stay away from garbage cans…” and then “Text or call when you can!”  At first I was going to reply with something cheeky like, “I rarely paw around in garbage” but then thought somebody may have stolen her phone number, similar to what has happened to other friends’ email accounts.  I went upstairs to send a message via Facebook, when Nels told me what he had just found out:  somebody had bombed the finish line, and they thought there might be more bombs stashed in garbage cans.

The initial shock that always comes with this kind of news—Columbine, Oklahoma City, 9/11, Newtown—was exacerbated by the pure exhilaration that came with having been there just a few hours before.  We stood in the cool spring late morning sun, surrounded by thousands of others bearing witness to the monumental effort it takes to complete 26.2 miles.  We all cheered the wheelchairs, the elites, and then the first waves of runners from the vantage point of Heartbreak Hill, a few miles from the finish.  We also cheered the military personnel walking in long lines in their desert fatigues with large backpacks, symbolizing the context of this race as part of Patriots’ Day, a celebration of “the shot heard ‘round the world” at the battles of Lexington and Concord, the scene of our country’s birth. 

There was a huge security presence: spotters on bicycles, riding along with the runners, looking into the crowd.  Police on motorcycles, moving along the edges of the course, keeping spectators out of the street so runners would have a clear path.  Riding immediately before the elite groups of women and men, there were black vans full of men holding large guns.  At the time, in the sunshine, with the bright colors of runners’ singlets and spectators’ spring jackets, it felt like overkill.  “Who would want to hurt runners?  Runners are harmless,” I said to my friends.

Now I get it.

The Boston Marathon, as my brother Joe put it, is a sacred event.  It is not only revered by runners, but is symbolic of the hard work and sacrifice that led to this country’s founding, commemorated by the race taking place on Patriots’ Day.  The beauty and strength of the individual human body, running, opens into the collective beauty and strength of the running community.  Nels pointed out that the finish line is a place where runners are at their most vulnerable—physically and emotionally spent, tired, hungry, thirsty, sweaty, looking for their loved ones, often with no key, no phone, and dependent on the kindness and organization of the race directors and volunteers.  Bombing the finish line of a marathon is a kick to someone who is down.  Bombing the finish line of the Boston Marathon is a gauntlet thrown down.

How can we, as individuals and collectively, work for a sense of peace and healing at this moment and beyond?  I was heartbroken yesterday, and still am, at the loss of life and the multitude of physical injuries.  I was angry, and still am, that now this race, and every large race, will have to redouble their already incredible efforts to secure the participants and the public. 

At the same time, though, let’s not allow our sadness and anger to overwhelm our awe at what was accomplished yesterday.  Let us applaud the efforts of the winners, Lelisa Desisa of Ethiopia, and Rita Jeptoo of Kenya, and their fine competitors, including our very own Shalane Flanagan, Kara Goucher, and Jason Hartmann, all of whom finished in the top ten. In addition, the 20+ thousand runners who trained for this event, putting in hours of running, deserve accolades.  The race organizers should also be recognized for putting together an enormous event attended by thousands.

Of course we want justice, but not at the expense of healing.  Healing comes from positive action.  Runners, wherever they are on the spectrum of recreational to hard-core, can keep the spirit of the Boston Marathon, and the sacrifices of the victims, through renewed dedication to the sport.  Non-runners can act with fierce determination in their chosen activities, physical or not.  Healing comes from the knowledge that we are constantly working to be our best selves, and understanding that others are doing the same.   Poet William Stafford offers these lines to carry us forward:

Will you ever bring a better gift for the world

Than the breathing respect that you carry

Wherever you go right now?